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Archive for January, 2003

 
|| January 12, 2003 || 12:43 am || Comments (2) ||

If you came for the wine, that’s cool.

If you’re sticking around for the conversation, I feel I must warn you: Things can get a little confusing around here.

 
|| January 10, 2003 || 10:47 pm || Comments (5) ||

Work is the curse of the drinking class.”

- Oscar Wilde

People who use quotes from other, more famous persons to define their message(s) have little, if anything, to say.”
- Jett Superior

It’s Mugarita Nighttm. I’m employing a chartreuse crazy straw as a delivery system; look out, folks. It is one part margarita mix to two parts tequila, isn’t it??

I’m going through a strange period of unrest in my life. I’m antsy nearly every fucking day. I can be standing, calmly talking to somebody, but every hair on my body is standing on end, every synapse screaming out. As of late, I have the urge randomly throughout most days to turn and run screaming like my hair is on fire. A great resolve keeps me fixed in place as if I were somewhat sane and reasonable.

I’m not sure if I am anymore.

I read somewhere that Mars (which, if you brush up against things of an astrological nature, is my ‘ruling planet’) is closer to Earth this year than ever before. This, supposedly, is fucking with me mightily. Well okay then. At least this time I have something to pin it on.

When I was in the neighborhood of twelve years of age, my mother thought that it would be beneficial if I saw a therapist. They had different names for them back then, a little soft-shoe title that kept the masses comforted, but basically he was a headshrink for KooKooKids. I was in his office all of fifteen minutes, him picking all the requisite emotional scabs, before I started mocking him: “Your name is Gary Denny? You have two first names! That is the most retarded thing I’ve ever heard of. How could your parents fuck up such a simple thing as a name??”

Me and ole Gary Denny? We were pals. I told him he was the nosiest motherfucker I ever did meet. I asked him why he couldn’t just make me draw pictures and extract some twisted, obscure meaning for the sake of my mother. You know, so that she would have the comfort of knowing that I was born with wires crossed and the resulting anger and confusion and lack of peace had nothing to do with anything she had fucked up; so that she would know the unfucking had little to do with her and more to do with the Cosmos as a whole. I asked him if, at base level, if he didn’t derive some perverse pleasure from picking the brains of mere children: “While you’re palpating my grey matter, scouring my prepubescent brain, do you get wood, ole boy? I bet you dooooo.” He told my mother at one point, with me in the room, “She’s hopeless, Gwendolyn. Hopeless.” I gathered a great deal of joy out of that one. I also gathered my jacket, smiling, and told my mother that I would be waiting outside. I did wait, for about ten minutes, and then caught a bus with the last bit of change in my pockets. I stayed gone a day and a half before returning home. The resulting punishment fit the crime, but my point was made. I never went to see ole GD again. It was the only time in my life that my mother didn’t get the better of me, and I think that it only happened then because she allowed it to be that way.

I’d like to think that Mister Denny has had his card punched by Karma by now for what was a spectacular lack in judgement (you can’t lead with the seat of your pants, after all, when you have someone’s fragile psyche in your handssss…). My hyper-inflated ego sees him alone, against his own volition, with warts and a drinking problem, talking to himself in a run-down shack. He can’t get laid for the life of him and has some sort of gum disease. And yellow eyes. All the beasties have yellow eyes.

Frankly, I thought upon returning home that I would have the holy tar beaten right the fuck out of me. To this day, my mother has no idea where I went for that period of time, how I passed that day-and-a-half.

Trainyards were plentiful in Oklahoma, and I hung out in one. I passed the night in an empty boxcar. Amazingly enough, I spent that time unchallenged and unbothered, unscathed by that experience from a myriad of perspectives. Thinking about it now, this brings about not a sense of alarm, but a sense of surprise. Life should’ve been the death of me long ago, because on more than one occasion I have been too fucking smart for my own fucking good. I have been reckless numerous times with what has been gifted to me, but yet I am still here to relate (relay?) the tale.

A grown man stood in front of me, a man that I admire and hold in fond regard, not long ago and put this simple statement to me:

“You could have the best of both worlds, right here, right now.”

and I replied with,

“Yeah, but if I were the type of woman to take you up on that offer, I would be the type of woman that is ultimately not worth having.”

and he replied easily, but sincerely,

“I don’t care. You’re mine. You were mine first.”

and I thought crazily,

“…so you win by default??”

while John Mellencamp’s ‘Key West Intermezzo‘ went canted and dizzyingly through my head. He said it with such finality that I just stared. I don’t think my jaw was agape (raised by a Marine to keep bearing intact, don’tcha know), but it felt like it wanted to be.

“I can’t, and I won’t” was never spoken aloud, but it was understood. A friend –at least at that time– once said to me, “Fate spins funny circles, Beth,” and I have to agree. Some comedy, though, is black not only on the surface but in nature and does more harm than good.

It simply does not do to love too much. It does not do at all. Some days all I want to do is run for the nearest trainyard and love only myself, as selfish and as horrifying as that may sound.

 
|| January 7, 2003 || 6:04 pm || Comments (6) ||

I think that my new favorite saying will forthwith be,

Fuck you really a lot.

Wet Willy: define to the best of your ability. Southerners are exempt from this exercise because they should know what it is by default. Don’t spoil it for the unindoctrinated.

Here I am, making up words again.

 
|| January 7, 2003 || 5:15 pm || Comments (9) ||

Logged nearly a couple thousand miles on the trusty (knock wood, dammit, knock WOOD) little Saturncar in the two weeks I was not in the clutches of my blog and the Superior Muffinasses away. At first I set out for a specific place, but each day I awoke found me saying, “Hey, I’m only roughly three hours away from the city of ___________ and, whaddaya know, ___________ lives there and I should really grace them with my presence on their sofa,” and then throwing the ole travelin’ bag stuffed with cheap clothes, expensive shoes, lipstick (laaaaahts of lipstick) and paperback novels into my trunk. Open road!! OPEN ROOOOOOAD!

Felt, as I always do when returning to this godforfuckingsaken state, that “I’ve lost something along the way, and it AIN’T here in Hellabammy”.

Despair, brothers and sisters. Coming back here always brings a sense of despair with it. I was here a mere day, only beginning to make a dent in the laundry, when I received word that my aunt had died. My family is close. It was not exactly like losing a parent, but it was something akin to it.

Back on the road with me, listening to Matthew Ryan and Beth Hart the entire way, to go to the place that makes me feel the saddest, EVER, when I depart from it. Maybe the Delta is just marshy soybean fields and muddy river to others, but it holds magic for me. And family. I fucking miss my family immensely, and can’t help thinking feeling that I am missing so much when I am away. That my children are missing so much by never having lived there and interacting with oodles of cousins and passels of aunties and uncles.

The coming home back here was delayed as long as possible, resulting in a giddy, forced-march of a two ay emm drive, and my parents yelling that I make them nuts with my dangerous ways.

I, who hath travelled here and yon with no more than twenty bucks and a backpack, frightening them with a five-hour drive under cover of darkness? I bite back the temptation to yell, “I AM GROWN, DAMMIT!!!” because only people who aren’t grown shout that.

So, in a nutshell, my heart was tramped upon three times in the space of two weeks, lending to the temptation to rip the ole fucker out and throw the flaming shards into the abyss.

I am not a drama queen. Today I hate my life. In another two weeks I will be numb once again and embarrassed that I even told you any of this.

Repeat after me, Stepford Kids, “All is well. Things are peachy-keeeeeen.”